


Karaoke and 3 ½ Star Hotels

by Tardiscompanion



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Hotel Sex, Infidelity, Karaoke, Nicola is tipsy not drunk, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15563649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardiscompanion/pseuds/Tardiscompanion
Summary: Malcolm has had a long day, and it's about to get longer.





	Karaoke and 3 ½ Star Hotels

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to travellinghopefully,for the beta. She was so kind, so patient, and so helpful. Malcolm and Nicola would have never left the stairwell if not for her.

His day is never going to fucking end. It hasn’t been difficult just tedious. Small groups of fires that needed dousing, one after the other, after the other. Malcolm is in the hotel lobby, heading toward the elevators when fuck him, his eyes catch on yet another smoldering ember of shit. 

The hotel bar is tacky. For fuck sake, tape is holding down the carpet in some places. Malcolm could care less about the décor, his concern are the occupants of the bar who now (poor bastards) are suffering through an off-key rendition of Summer Loving by the Minister of Social Affairs and Citizenship.

Thankfully, none of the occupants are hacks. Nicola, absorbed as she is in picking the next song doesn’t notice Malcolm’s silent approach. She’s just about to select Don't Impress Me Much, when he saves the eardrums of everyone in the room. 

“Fucking give me that microphone right now or I swear I’m going to choke you with the chord.” 

Nicola nearly jumps out of her skin, drops the microphone near a speaker and Malcolm thinks the screechy feedback sounds better than her singing. 

He kicks the microphone away, grabs Nicola by the elbow and marches her away from the karaoke machine; a patron mouths ‘thank you’ at him.

Nicola twists out of his grip. ‘Malcolm, fuck off! You…you creepy angel of death stalker.” She slurs the f in fuck and off. 

“Ah, so I see we’ve been drinking. That’s lovely darling. Come on we are leaving” 

“Fuck off, twat,” she mocks. She gets his accent pretty good, the sneer could use some work, and he’d think it was funny, but instead of heading out the door like a good little Minster of the Crown she heads back to the bar. 

The waves of irritation that pour off him are so intense the patrons who weren’t paying attention are looking at him now. For a very vindictive moment, he considers taking a picture of Nicola at the bar and leaking it to Angela Heeney. 

The barman, a twat with a ponytail and a goatee wanders over to Nicola looking concerned. He stares over at Malcolm like he’s some kind of school yard bully. This is in danger of becoming a scene, and for that reason alone he decides to take the picture, and store it for future use. 

****

“Give me a scotch neat, the tab for fucking Shania here, and then fuck off,” he tells the barman. 

“Is this him?” the barman asks. Malcolm hates people who don’t fuck off when instructed.

“Who?” Nicola asks in her baffled way. 

“Your husband?” ponytail answers.

“Oh fuck,” Malcolm interrupts. He rubs his figures over his eyes. “How long have you been down here talking to this cunt?” he demands, making air quotes around talking.

“Hey, you can’t just come in here and push people around,” says the barman cunt who clearly has no sense of self-preservation

He turns to Nicola. “This is how it’s done sweetheart,” he leans forward with a sneering smile aimed at ponytail and is pleased when he takes a step back.

“Now you, you listen to me,” Malcolm keeps his voice low, slow and threatening. 

“One, I’m not her husband. If I was she’d be hanging on to the bed sheets screaming my name. Not in some 3½ star hotel bar gossiping with a ½ star cunt like you. Two, if you don’t fuck off right now, I’m going to take that soda gun, stick it up your arse, and give you a fucking generic coke enema. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m not fucking joking”

When Malcolm turns back to her, she’s staring at him with an odd expression. Circles of information swirl in his mind. The main one being they are in a hotel full of journalists. It’s going to make him look bad if she’s caught alone in a bar at 2 a.m. He can’t drag her back to her room, witnesses. Finally, she’s having a good time and acting like a petulant child that doesn’t want to leave the playground. Negotiations could be in order. 

“What are you doing Nicola? Your speech went all right and now you’re down here jeopardizing your career.”

She rolls her eyes and just manages to slide to a stand from the bar stool. “You just don’t want me to have any fun,” she accuses, poking him in the chest in between each word.

She’s standing in the narrow space between the stool and Malcolm’s legs. He doesn’t make a sardonic remark about her trying to give him a lap dance because he’s busy making a point and not because her touch causes a pleasant sensation and absolutely not because his brain has just short-circuited.

He grabs her fingers. “Do you remember Alison Becker hmm? They fired her for being intoxicated on the job.” 

“Yes Malcolm, but she went into court drunk.” 

“They wouldn’t have had evidence if some hack hadn’t tweeted a picture of her at a pub having a liquid lunch. How would you like to read this in the paper tomorrow:” he lets go of her fingers and gestures a headline. “Nicola Murray delivers speech while intoxicated”

“I didn’t!” she protests.

“It doesn’t fucking matter Sweetheart. How many times do I have to explain this shit to you? Have you already forgotten “I’m Bent”, or “fourth in the sack race?” Do you think some journalist that wants a story is going to care if you were really drunk or not? You’re sitting in a hotel bar, same place you were staying while you gave your speech; no one can tell what time it is in this fucking cave. “

****

He’s watching Nicola’s yoga firmed arse climb the stairs. Malcolm pauses mid-step and tilts his head to one side. He’s never considered the potential merits of yoga, but from this angle he’s gaining an appreciation.

“Come on Malcolm keep up,” she giggles. 

When it comes to climbing she’s got him outclassed, and she’s fucking smug about it.

“Oh, I do apologize for slowing you down, Malcolm drawls. “I don’t have legs like a mountain climber from my severe neurosis.” 

Later, when he reflects on this, he’ll consider this was the moment of his bad decision. She’s stops at the top of the stairs to call him a prick. He’s a whole flight down, and from here he can make out the top of her stockings. No, she wouldn’t wear those would she? He looks again, and sure enough an outline of a garter strap is pressed against her skirt. 

She’s saying something about not shaming her, and he’s an insensitive this or that. He can’t tell, his brain just left his body, and he might have mumbled something about being sorry.

“What?” 

He doesn’t blame her for sounding shocked. It never happens.

“I said fucking sorry, you try to keep up, and don’t ever expect to hear it again.”

“Thank you, Malcolm.” She says, voice quiet.

The quiet stretches out until eventually she starts singing again, at least the stairwell has better acoustics than the lounge. The echo rounds out the flat notes of ‘I Will Survive.’

He doesn’t want to sing along with her, especially to that twating song. But, he does like the way sound waves bounce and resonate off the cement walls so he sings a couple of bars of, ‘Sixteen Tons.’ 

He’s about three stairs behind when Nicola turns so fast he almost walks into her cunt. She’s staring at him eyes wide and incredulous.

“Jesus, Nicola, what the fuck is wrong now?” he growls nearly as incredulous. 

“You have a trained voice!” her voice is accusatory like he’s not fucking allowed to have it. 

“Jealous?” he answers. 

“How?” 

“I was a fucking choir boy, all right?” He glares, daring her to challenge. What the fuck, why is he explaining anything at all?

She looks shocked, puzzled, and he can see the question forming on her lips. He holds up a hand to stop her from asking him the same questions everyone asks.

“Yes, I was a child. No, I don’t burst into flames if I walk into a church, as long as I don’t do it on Sunday’s.”

A little smile pulls her lips up.

“I’m finding out all sorts of things about you tonight,” she says, leaning forward. He thinks oh fuck she’s lost her balance, but he’s wildly misjudged things because she presses her lips against his. 

He’s fucked. He realizes it the moment he doesn’t push her away, instead, his eyes dart around frantically just to make sure they're alone.

He braces his hand on the railing so he can take more of her weight without falling backward, slips her bottom lip between his own, and teases the tip of her tongue. When their tongues slide across each other he takes a step up so they are just about level and her breasts press against his chest. Her hands start traveling in interesting directions. The urge to close his eyes and move his hands over her body is overwhelming so he pulls back and asks how many more levels to her room. Just one she promises and so he follows

No matter what, they can’t be seen going into her room together at 2:42 in the morning. He’s shown up to bollock people at 2 a.m. but slipping into a room with a Minster is quite a different affair. Bad choice of fucking words. He instructs her to go into her room and leave the door open for him.  
In the humid stairwell, he paces and tries reason with his cock. 

Nicola fucking Murray? Really? 

Yes, yes it answers back. I bet she’s really bendy!

His imagination wanders: picturing himself behind her in downward dog, on top of her in reclining goddess….

It’s been ten minutes. Any pathetic fuck nosey enough to be looking through peepholes would have lost interest by now. He can see through the little glass window that the hall is clear. He doesn’t have to do this. He could go back to his room, jerk off, and add that little picture to his blackmail file. His phone chimes.

Glummy Mummy: R U CUMing? Otherwise, I have to unpack my vibrator. 

He palms his traitorous cock. He’s going to bollock her for sending a message like that to his phone; right after he fucks her through the mattress. 

She’s sitting on the bed propped up against the headboard, and scrolling through her phone. Her eyes widen a little when he walks through the door and follow him until he sits at the end of the bed a few inches from her feet. 

This close he can make out more of the shape of her leg. They're firm and probably strong. He knows he’s staring but he can’t take his eyes away from inches of creamy skin, starkly contrasted against the black of her stockings. He ventures to touch. Something small until he can get his point across. 

“I just want to be clear,” his voice hoarse. He makes light circles around her ankle bone with his finger.  
Doesn’t want to finish his thought, because she shifts under his touch and makes a soft pleased noise that hardens his cock. What he’s about to say next, could definitely get him kicked out of her bed.

“If you ever think about exposing this to the press, and you might because I can be a cunt sometimes; I will drag your name so deep through the mud they won’t be able to extract it with a boring drill and a team of Louisiana mud fishers.” 

“For fuck's sake Malcolm,” she pokes his leg with her other foot.

“Don’t spoil the moment, and you are a cunt 98.9 percent of the time.” 

Terms accepted, his shoulders relax and he gives her a wolfish smile. Feels like a predator that’s just brought its prey back to the den. And he wants to play with his food. 

“I’ll show you what the other 1.1 percent is like” 

Grabbing her ankles, he pulls her around so that her legs are hanging over the side of the bed. She shrieks and giggles and her skirt rides up higher. His Armani covered knees touch the dingy carpet with her legs on either side of him. 

“Why are you wearing these Nicola?” he asks, slipping his finger under the garter strap. Rubbing his finger back and forth where the top her stocking meets her bare skin. They’re plain black straps: nothing frilly or lacy. He wonders what the garter suspender looks like. 

She shifts, makes a little moaning sound, and he’s encouraged at how responsive she is to his touch. 

“Do you always wear these?” he asks, undoing a garter snap. “Or do you do you just wear them during speeches as some sort of distraction method?” He unhooks the other, leans down, and kisses the inside of her knee. Finally, he’s is where he’s been aching to be. He kisses and licks his way up the hard-line delineating Nicola’s inner thigh and quads until he reaches the apex of her stockings. 

Nicola’s other leg wraps loosely around his side, her fingers card through his hair, and she whispers his name. 

A horrid random thought occurs to him, he pops up to look at her. 

“You weren’t trying to pull that barman twat were you?” 

“Malcolm,” her voice has lost the semi irritated tone it always has had, at least that it always has had with him. She sits half way up, grabs his tie, and pulls him forward. “Stop fucking teasing.” 

Her lips push against his for the second time tonight. It’s a little needy; she’s biting, moaning, and severely restricting his air supply. He takes the hand that’s currently choking him and pins it against the mattress. 

“It’s a little soon for erotic asphyxiation, Nicky.” He whispers into the shell of her ear. His lips brush feather soft against her, she shivers under him, causing parts of him to twitch. 

“Don’t fucking call me Nicky, she pants and buries her face against his neck.

“I always loved the way you smell,” she says, still trying to undo his tie. 

“I would expect you to smell like, sulfur and hellfire, but you don’t. You always smell so good.” 

Malcolm raises himself on his elbow and pulls his tie the rest of the way off. He touches her face and runs his thumb softly across her lips.

“Nicky. Sweetheart, “he punctuates each word with a kiss. “Shut… the… fuck…up.” 

Nicola’s hands resume their interesting course. They run down his chest, pull out his shirt, and slide under. Everything is fine and more or less under his control. She likes when he squeezes, but doesn’t pinch her nipple. He’s just about to break the kiss and ask her how she wants him to fuck her, maybe throw in a promise or two about how hard he’s going to make her cum, when her sneaky little hand slides over his cock, and he moans into her mouth like some sort of romance novel idiot. 

That’s it, he decides. Her hands are a liability. He slides onto his side and pulls her against him. That’s better, her hands are where he can see them and her arse is pressed against his cock. He can shift away if it gets to be too much. Wrapping his arm around her waist he unbuttons her blouse, interspersing rough bites between soft kisses from her neck to her shoulder.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, his hand caressing her wonderfully soft, plump, arse and then traveling to the zipper of her skirt.

She turns in his arms despite his grip and pulls open his shirt buttons. He hears one ping off the light fittings. Taking her hands, he puts them on his belt, and finishes the buttons himself. 

Pausing, he focuses on her hands, her fingers, the fine tremor as they hover over the button of his trousers, the astonishingly loud sound as she lowers the zip, tooth, by tooth. 

When she glances up at him, he doesn’t bother to hide the hunger in his gaze. Intoxicated, by the delicate lace of her bra and the darker skin revealed underneath. Fighting the conflicting desires of taking everything as slowly as possible and wanting, just wanting her. 

Tilting his head, he fixes her with his gaze, holding her in place. 

“Take me out, “he says, voice rough with desire. Maybe he wants his food to play with him. 

Unsure for a moment and then blushing as she realizes his meaning, Nicola worries her bottom lip. Her hand brushes against the heat of him and the strained fabric. She eases his trousers over his hips and he unconsciously licks his lips. Touching his thigh, his cock jerks against the fabric. He shifts under her and swallows hard, eyes following every one of her movements. 

“Your turn.” 

Nicola tilts her head to the side, looking confused (of course) so he clears it up for her. Sitting up, he pulls her body on top of his, snakes his hand into her hair and forces her to look at him. 

“I’m going to take my time enjoying you.” 

Unclasping her bra while she bites his ear; he allows himself to revel in the feel of her stocking covered thighs pressed against his bare flesh. He unzips her skirt and she shimmies out. Now the only this separating them is a thin slip of material of her underwear, radiating heat against his aching need. 

“Next time, take these off or I’ll tear them off,” he says, “hooking his finger under the silk and lace.

“Next time?” she smirks, grinding down, sending shock waves through him. 

He shudders and moans and he’s not going to last, end up finishing in seconds like a fucking teenager unless he takes some control. He grips her right hip with his hand and slips his fingers under the already wet fabric with other. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’s so wet, his hips arch up at the same time she moves against him.

A whimpering noise escapes the back of Nicola’s throat. Her hands move over his, holding them in place while she guides it where she wants. Her hips rock, sliding his fingers through her wetness and pausing to bump his fingertips against her clit, then sliding back down to do it again. 

He realizes he’s breathing hard with his teeth clenched and it’s not exactly an appealing look on him. She looks debauched, stockings slipping down, the elastic not up to the job of keeping them up without the help of the garter strap as the heat builds between them. 

He scoots down so that she’s not so directly over him. His hands leaving her momentarily, so he can readjust.  
Finding her clit with his thumb, he brings his fingers toward her entrance, applying slow steady pressure until her lust filled eyes meet his. He raises an eyebrow: she nods vigorously in response.

“Yes, please. Malcolm, yes.” 

He bites his lips, hips jolting at the feel of her. She’s snug and wet, inner walls clinging to his finger. Feels like she hasn’t been fucked in ages: makes him feel strangely possessive. 

“You’re going to come for me, Nicky? Yes, you are, right here, right now on my fucking fingers.” 

“Don’t,” her voice trails off. He’s been observant, twist his thumb just so, her protest dries in her throat before reaching her lips. When he applies more pressure and adds another finger her legs tremble, head snaps back, she yells his name, hips twitching violently.  
Little uptight Nicola Murray shakes under him, as he works her through the aftershocks, slowing his pace, caressing her thighs. Needless to say, he’s pleased with himself, more than just a little pleased with her. He didn’t think she would just lie back and think of the Department of Social affairs, but he never expected her to straddle his fingers like a champion bull rider either. 

The salty-pasty smell of sex lingers in the air. He can almost taste it on his tongue. He begins talking shit because it’s what he does. Asking her if she wants to crawl up here and sit on his face, grab his hair shut him up with her cunt. Come on, she knows she’s always wanted to.

Nicola’s eyes glaze over, she grips his wrist, lifts his hand to her mouth, closes her lips around his fingers: swirling her tongue around them, sucking, chasing every taste of herself. 

It’s the single fucking filthiest thing he has ever experienced. His brain can't process her transition from uppity minister to sex goddess. But he can be forgiven for that, can’t he? All the blood that fuels his massive intellect has been diverted south by that mind-blowing performance. All thoughts have fled to his aching, throbbing cock – he hadn’t thought he could get any harder, but she’d proven him wrong.

****

 

The bathroom door is half open. If it was all the way open it would be way too intimate, he’d consider leaving. All the way open would suggest a sort of intimacy he’s not ready to embrace, like longtime lovers or a married couple. But it’s halfway open, and Malcolm can hear water running and Nicola humming to herself.

There is a nook just outside the bathroom with a mirror, sink, coffee pot, and shitty bathroom accessories. Malcolm stands in front of it and assesses the damages. He traces the faint and not so faint scratches on his hips, the bite mark just over his nipple. Remembering.  
He was a never a Boy Scout, but he was always prepared. Nicola’s hands were on him as he fished in his wallet, behind his Starbucks card and retrieved a simple foil covered square. 

It was slow going at first. His arms shaking with effort as he held himself still. Letting her guide the movements; until the latex and the friction gave way, and Nicola was using words like more and harder, fingernails biting into his flesh.

At some point, she’d started getting louder, and he’d leaned down to whisper that the walls were paper fucking thin. She’d nodded and found the solution of sinking her teeth into his chest. 

He had to resort to imagining Steve Fleming naked, Steve Fleming's Micro penis; to stave off coming. But then Nicola tightened her legs around him, her cunt was fluttering around him, and it was a lost fucking cause. His glut and thigh muscles contracted of their own volition; driving him forward, and he was coming like an uncapped fire hydrant. 

When it was over, he collapsed on top of her. Not minding her fingers playing in his damp curls. After a day spent putting out press fires and potential fuck-ups, Malcolm felt completely extinguished. 

Leaning down to splash some water on his face, he catches sight of Nicola as she coming out the of bathroom. She has on a silky nighty with spaghetti straps. He’s wearing little more, just his navy blue underwear. 

“Oh you’re still here,” she says. 

“Of course, I’m still here. Where the fuck else would I be?” 

“I don’t know; you’re the Dark Lord of Spin. I thought you just materialize and dematerialize as you please.”

He laughs at that, stretches, and walks over to the bed. 

“I’m too tired for banter darling. Are you getting into this bed or not?”


End file.
